Five Senses
by small-but-strong
Summary: Five senses and five brothers
1. Sight

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Thunderbirds characters

**Five Senses for Five Brothers**

**sight**

There's no sound in space. It's just this massive area of absolute silence. The vacuum I currently reside in. Well, I can hear in here, in Thunderbird 5, it's a small pocket of noise in an infinity of nothing.

Talk about peace and quiet.

But you know, I guess not having the distraction of sound, it makes the view all that much more impressive.

I can see the expanse of ice sheets in the Arctic. The golden deserts of the Sahara. The spiky peaks of the Rockies stabbing the dense white clouds. The oceans, such a deep blue colour, they could almost be black. With one little glance out of my window, I can see all of this, and so much more.

It's just simply fantastic.

But that is only the beginning. From here I can watch the endless cycle of the sun chasing away the night time as it spreads it warm light across the earth's surface, almost like a gentle hand spreading out lovingly as if to say, 'hey I'm here, everything's better in this light'.

But there's even more to see. Raising my eyes a little, the blackness that spreads out in front of my eyes is filled with tiny diamonds of silver, twinkling stars piercing the night time sky in place constantly in space. Clustered together, they form almost cloud like bodies, circulating outwards, like ghostly fingers, a pale mist extends towards others, reaching for fellow celestial bodies.

I could spend all day looking out this window. Some days I do. It's a decent way to pass the time.

"_Calling International Rescue…"_

And I suppose answering distress calls can be too.

Here, I can't see what is happening. Only hear the voices of those people, begging for our help. They describe the situations for me, clearly enough, but I still can't see them. They are faceless strangers, but their fear always brings out a feeling sympathy and care, a desire to help them no matter what. I'm glad that I can feel that, otherwise I'm not sure I could justify telling my brothers to go help them. Maybe not being able to see the horrendous conditions that these people need rescued from makes it easier as well. I've often wondered if by not seeing, I'm lucky.

Or maybe not. My mind's eye goes into overdrive. It's like the first time I ever watched a horror film with Scott. It was a gory, blood-fest film that exploited anyone's nervous position by making as many jumpy moments as possible. I kept my eyes shut for most of the film, but I couldn't block out the sounds. And what I heard made what I imagined all the more terrifying. I had been unable to sleep for a week and it was only when Scott and I subjected Virgil to the horror that I realised that the film wasn't half as terrifying as I had imagined it to be.

Really I should have taken the lesson from that.

My brother's have a habit of not really telling the whole story and I can only imagine what they are often confronted with.

For example, Scott suggesting that Brains' new discovery of a gas, which made cutting through metal much quicker than more traditional methods, would be absolutely necessary to save a family trapped in the basement car park below a building that had collapsed. So? Well the gas had only been tested once before and had left them both passed out after only a few minutes of use. It did not bode well for the rescue.

I could just see it then…the two of them desperately trying to get to the trapped family, powering through the metal doors only to get to the final one and pass out while the basement began to crumble around them. Virgil falling first and Scott suddenly realising they were both in serious trouble before he found himself collapsing on the ground beside him.

It didn't happen like that, thankfully. But it didn't stop me imagining it, something that was more terrifying to me than if I'd been watching them on a screen.

Thankfully, the more rescues that we carried out, the easier it got. Scott was more confident in assessing the situation quickly. Virgil was much more in control of each piece of equipment and my minds eye lost its doom and gloom fixation and became a lot more reserved in its imagery.

I still get that little flutter of nerves at the start of every rescue though. For as much as they tell me, I still just want to see them safe and sound, see the rescues being completed successfully.

But up here I can't. All I can see is this glorious view, a view that is only experienced by a lucky few, a view that makes me feel so content in a way. It's nice to see everything coming together on one globe and working so well.

Well, I guess I can cope with worrying about rescues if I can look at this every day.


	2. Smell

**smell**

You know what I remember so clearly about my first ever rescue? Not the broken and bloody bodies which scattered the streets, some staggering, clutching bloody wounds. Not the dense clouds of thick black smoke that wafted into the air above. Not the screaming of the injured, the terrified, the lost. Not the harsh crackling, grumbling and frequent explosions that punctuated the constant roaring of the fire.

It was the smell.

Burning…whether it is rubble, wood, vegetation…even flesh. The smells were trapped within my nostrils, shocking me more that anything I could hear or see.

I guess I should explain. Being trained as an astronaut, my primary role is space rescues. Scott, Virgil and if he's needed, Gordon, tend to be the ones that take care of the landside rescuing. But at base, I always sort of experience the rescue on some level. I can see the scene they are facing, whether it is daunting or terrifying or even sometimes, a bit of a relief, it's not as bad as they'd feared. I can hear them talking between one another, can hear the background sounds, the crumbling of walls, creaking of sagging buildings…sometimes even their own scared yells or pleas for help.

On my first rescue, the sights and sounds that greeted me were nothing new.

But I'd never smelled a rescue. And all of a sudden I realised that when I thought I had experienced the stress, the fear, the anguish of a rescue, I had been sadly mistaken. Suddenly all my senses were experiencing the rescue, I could see the blistered skin, I could hear the gasped wails of agony…I could smell the seared flesh.

I had never felt so sick. I wanted to get out of there…run away.

But I couldn't. I'd signed up for this and what was I expecting? Rescues weren't rainbows and butterflies…no they were scary, they were ugly and they were sickening. I felt ashamed as I watched Scott and Virgil talking to the firemen and police officers on site, discussing how our equipment could be best used. They seemed so unaffected, so desensitized to what was happening. I was awed, watching them in a kind of horror until Virgil touched my shoulder gently.

"Hey Al," he said. "We're in the Mole." I followed him, taking a seat behind him in the cramped cockpit as he manoeuvred the vehicle towards the drilling zone.

He noticed my uncharacteristic silence and glanced over his shoulder at me.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I nodded quickly, not wanting to be shown as some kind of weak link in the chain. I could bet that everyone else that had been in this position had not felt like such a baby, wanting to cry, wanting to puke, wanting to run…

"Y'know, Gordon was exactly the same as this on his first rescue," Virgil commented, adjusting the controls to set the drilling angle and depth. I looked at him in silence.

"He was?" I asked finally.

"Uh huh," Virgil confirmed. "Real quiet, not wanting to talk to me, scared, confused, overwhelmed."

"I'm not scared!" I retorted, but Virgil knew fine well I was lying. He was good enough not to challenge me however.

"And my first rescue…I was absolutely terrified. I was shaking so badly when I was waiting in the cars, just waiting for that plane to land on top of me. I honestly thought I was going to mess up, people were going to get hurt…or that I'd get hurt…or worse…especially when the car I was in overturned and all I could see was this auto-bomb hanging above me, mocking me and the idea that I'd saved the day or something…it was one of the scariest moments of my life." I glanced at my hands, not really having expected Virgil to be so honest with me. But then, he'd justified my feelings perfectly.

"I just didn't expect it to be like…like this," I said after a moment of listening to the rumbling of the Mole powering through the soft sandstone rock around us.

"It's the smell right?" Virgil asked, a knowing smile appearing on his face.

"Uh…yeah? How…?"

"Because watching the fires tearing through those buildings or listening to the explosion, that's almost commonplace with television now. And okay, it's more shocking seeing it in person, but it's nothing you haven't seen or heard before. The smells…that's the new one. I know Al, because I felt the same, Gordon felt the same. Even Scott felt the same." Scott was the same…well that's a new one. I can't imagine Scott feeling like this, so maybe Virgil is just trying to make me feel better by saying that.

"I didn't think being able to smell it would make me feel like this though," I confessed.

"Smell is the underrated sense," Virgil told me matter of factly. "Alan, rescuing isn't pretty, but…well follow my lead on this one and I might be able to show you why me, Scott and Gordon can do this, no matter what we see, what we hear, what we smell…"

Virgil was right. I carried out a little girl from the rubble and gave her to her parents. I'd just saved her. I'd just reunited the family. They were crying, they were so happy. Their smiles through the tears were so heart-wrenching and all I could see was this scene before me. The sounds and sights and smells of the devastation that had brought us here were no longer at the fore front of my mind. There was a happiness, a great fulfilment with my actions were previously there had been fear and disgust at my feelings. I felt someone move up beside me and turned to see Scott, his eyes following mine towards the reunion taking place. He looked tired, dishevelled, but he smiled at me.

"Hey, I can't smell the burning anymore," I said.

"Yeah kiddo, the fires are out," Scott said, putting his arm around me and walking me back towards the Thunderbirds.

"We're done?" I asked as we picked our way across the rubble.

"Yeah, we're done here. You did really well today, it's not easy and that burning smell isn't pleasant with it being so suffocating, but you got through it. Good one Al." He patted me hard on the back as he made a mock salute to Virgil, telling him he'll see him back home, before jogging to his Thunderbird, revelling in a job well done.

And I got through it. And I knew then that I wanted to rescue, keeping in the family business. Virgil glanced up at me as I helped him pack away the last of the equipment into the pod. My smile, white teeth almost dazzling in contrast with my blackened clothes and face, told him exactly that.

Next landside rescue, I'm there.


	3. touch

**touch**

I have no idea how much rubble is above me. I can't see anything, the darkness is impenetrable. I thought maybe my eyes would adjust to the sudden blackness, but ten minutes down here and I'm still blind to everything. There's no sound down here either. Perhaps its muffled by the enormous mass above me…I don't know.

I lift my wrist communicator to my mouth and call to whoever might be listening, the island, John, Mission Control…anyone. I don't get a response and feel a sinking feeling in my gut. I always told them to reply to messages quickly, efficiently. But then someone would have replied. So…either we are having problems communicating or maybe my communicator is damaged. Great.

I put out my hands into the blackness, feeling cold metal brush across my fingertips. Moving my hands around blindly, I can only imagine I'm encased by metal…maybe that's what protected me from being crushed by piles of crumbled building.

Wait…my hand comes into contact with something very different to the metal above me. At my side I feel something softer, when I rub at it, it crumbles at my touch. It feels kind of grainy so I deduce it must be dust or dry mud. Maybe if I picked at it, I might get some light in here…some fresh air…

_Air_. Oh God, I never even thought about that. Is there any air penetrating my tiny cove? I don't feel any cool, refreshing breeze, just warm stale air that I'm breathing out…faster and faster as I begin to feel my stomach clenching, my chest heaving…I'm breathing so hard I'm just filling this space with hot, sour air. I'm suddenly dizzied by panic and start scrabbling desperately at the dust substance. I just want out of here…

I give up pretty quickly when it becomes clear to me that this dust wall beside me is thick.

And I don't know how deep I'm buried.

And I might dig through it only to find more metal. I've given up on my own plans of saving myself. I'll just have to rely on the help of someone else.

I close my eyes, don't know why though since it is no different to what I see with my eyes open. I'm trying to remain calm. To think positive. We have the most sophisticated equipment in the world. We've got to be able to find one of our own easily, right? I mean, they're probably above me right now, triangulating my signal and preparing to dig for me. Any minute now I'm going to be out of here.

Unless…unless they don't know I'm stuck here. They're doing their own rescuing right now. Rescuing the very people that called for help. They won't even think about a brother that now needs a rescue. And when they do, it will probably be too late anyway. It's not looking good. Time is slowly running out for me.

My body feels like it has shut down. I don't taste the metallic blood welling in my mouth. I don't hear the faint shuffling of shifting rubble above me. I don't smell the burning from the fires above me. I don't see anything….nothing new there, but with ever other sense fading, it would have been nice to have something. I guess this is death then…or pretty close to it…not a comforting thought.

But then I feel something. A hand…it's dug through the rubble and now it searches for me, fingers batting clumsily at my arm, at my face. A finger pokes me in the eye, but it feels beautiful to me. In the tiny cramped space I manage to grab it, squeezing it as hard as I can, clutching this sudden and most welcome life-line, revelling in the absolute joy of a simple touch.

I know it's Virgil. Don't ask me how I know, I just do.

He squeezes back firmly, a gesture telling me I'm going to be okay. He's here and he's going to get me out, he's not going to let me go. I've never loved him as much as I do now.

The mass of contorted metal beams, smashed bricks and charred woodwork is quickly moved from above me and my senses are in overdrive. Light floods in and my eyes scream out in pain, the pupils constricting to tiny black pin holes. The muffled sounds are suddenly deafening and I try to shut them out.

But still there's his hand in mine. A constant gentle touch when everything else is going crazy around me.

Through the noise, the confusion, I hear his voice.

"Hey there." I opened one eye a crack and manage a tiny smile. He returns the smile, but I can see the worry and concern in his eyes.

"Hi Virg."

"We're going to get you home," he continues. "I just want you to relax…we're going to let you sleep for a while…" I feel a gentle pin prick on the top of my palm and almost instantly the sedation begins to work. His voice fades into silence, the light blurs before my eyes, before it begins to fade into black

The last sense I have before I become blissfully unaware of my own being, is the comforting touch of his hand clinging to mine.


	4. Hearing

**hearing**

The tips of my fingers gingerly touch the ivory keys before me. They used to be spotless white, but through years of use they are more a faded creamy colour now. No matter. I still get that same little tingle inside, a little thrill that comes with playing music. Sometimes when I play, I'm not aware of what I'm doing, it's second nature when you know a piece well I suppose, but I always get a little jump of excitement when I hear the notes merging together, the melody and accompaniment bonding to create music, music that can inspire, can create a sense of joy, can stimulate reflection, and then realise it's my fingers on the keys, it's me that's making that music.

Sounds a bit airy-fairy right?

I press down lightly on the keys and wait for the hammers to strike each string within the body of the piano and produce the chord.

It comes, full bodied, enlightening and pleasantly uplifting. It makes me smile, I already feel better having heard this chord. I know what piece I'm going to play, it's not all uplifting, but I think it reflects the current mood.

I know what you're thinking…I'm some high-brow musician type, live and die music, music is my life and all that…

Well, not really. Rescues are my life. They consume so much of my life, as with all my brothers, but I don't resent that. You think watching a family reunited after an earthquake, or saving a group of men trapped in a submarine doesn't make you feel a million dollars. Sure, we might be secret, but we all know the recognition is there, even if we can't publicly acknowledge it.

Music is an addition in my life, an added bonus that is like an old friend. If I'm feeling particularly pensive, perhaps pondering over the events of a rescue, I can sit at this piano for hours, playing through the thoughts. It's often the only time I can get to think having four other brothers around.

The music shifts, my fingers altering the rhythm, slowing it slightly and altering the key to a more minor tone as my thoughts begin to unwind.

Today, I kind of get the feeling that Scott isn't overly impressed with the way the rescue turned out. He takes it all to heart being the field commander and is now probably skulking around his room, arguing with himself about his orders and our actions. Alan's sulking. He didn't get to go out on the mission. Enough said really. Gordon's annoyed. Well I think he's annoyed, sometimes it can be hard to tell. He's quiet so I think something's annoying him, more than likely the fact Scott yelled him out at the rescue site. But they'll work through it I'm sure. Discontent is never normally a long lasting thing when we're all living on top of each other.

Another movement begins, this time a more major key comes forward, arpeggios running down the upper end of the scale. It almost reminds me of the sounds of pattering feet as Gordon escapes the scene of a crime having planted another of his pranks. That's what he needs. A prank. Just like I need this piano playing to soothe any lingering worries from a rescue site, Gordon needs to play a prank on someone…and as long as it's not me, he's welcome to it.

The tempo increases as I begin to wonder about Scott, how he will get out the niggling angst. The music has a pounding accompaniment and an almost march like sound to it. I could almost guarantee he's running along the beach, sweating it out as he powers alongside the waves, kicking up sand beneath his feet, listening to his breath coming harsh from his chest, letting his breathing set the tempo for him. And by the time he gets back for a shower, he'll be feeling much better.

Now Alan. The music becomes almost confused at this point. Alternating minor and major keys with varying slow, sweeping melodies suddenly becoming staccato notes, piercing the melody. I guess I have no idea how he'll get out of the sulk. I frown as I pick up on a complicated melody that does have some kind of optimistic feel to it. I like the sound of it and continue it, varying it as the music moves on. It is then that I see the shadow crossing the lounge doorway. And there's the man of moment standing watching me, looking thoughtful.

"Hey Virgil," Alan says from the doorway.

"Hey Alan," I return, not halting in my playing.

"That sounds cool," he says. "It's quite cheerful. You seen Tin Tin?"

Ah-ha, a smile and then asking for Tin Tin's whereabouts. Alan is cured!

And with that I can finish the piece with a magnificent crescendo followed by a rapid descent of chords down the scale until a final joyous cadence perfectly concludes the movement and I can sit back and sigh, my work is done and I feel better already.

Told you music could do that, didn't I?


	5. Taste

**taste**

'_My favourite taste by Gordon Tracy aged 8._

_My favourite taste is my Grandma's hot chocolate. It is very sweet and tastes amazing. It is made of melted flakes of chocolate and warm milk. Sometimes we have cream on top of it and she makes cookies to eat with it. She makes the hot chocolate for special days like birthdays or if we get good school reports. Sometimes she makes it when we are sad like when John was sick or when Virgil was sad because Alan spilled juice on his painting. The last time she made it was because Scott got his first A for algebra. I hope she makes some for me soon._'

I look at the scrawled writing at the top of my elementary school book and smile. Age 8 and not a care in the world, despite the lingering desire for Grandma's hot chocolate. No girls, no arguments with brothers, no angst with Dad over career choices, and no death-defying rescues either.

But even as I've got older, my age 8 self is still very much present.

There's nothing better than the taste of Grandma's hot chocolate.

Well, that and the comfort that I guess I associated with it, though too young to really comprehend that side of it.

This book makes me smile, despite having been cursed with the worst cold and worse, being denied the chance to participate in possibly the best rescue ever…

The call came in this morning, from deep in the jungles of South America. A film team trapped in a rapidly disappearing strip of land between two surging rivers, fed by a massive thunderstorm further upstream. But this isn't any ordinary film team. Oh no, they are filming the new Dolorez O'Hara film…she is the most amazing looking actress. A bit of Mexican and a bit of Irish mixed together and you're left with this girl, stunning tall, tanned, long dark hair and amazing blue eyes.

I begged with Dad…I mean, I was on my knees! But he was adamant I had to stay at base and recover from this stupid little cold.

The worst bit was watching Scott and Virgil look oh so smug as they made their way to their Thunderbirds. Virgil even had the gall to suggest I was turning a colour remarkably like Thunderbird 2!

Well, ok I am jealous, but it's Dolorez O'Hara…_the _Dolorez O'Hara!

I don't want to think about it. Scott will be trying to give her his old (supposedly) charming chat up lines and Virgil will talk all romantic about art and how he'd love to paint a portrait of her…the girls love that. So I've retreated to my room and have spent a few hours mindlessly digging through childhood junk. I'd rather be swimming, keeping my mind on beating my previous length times, but of course the cold has stopped me doing that as well. I hate the cold.

There's a knock at my door and I hear Grandma asking if she can come in. I quickly get into my bed, to spare me the lecture on not resting properly.

"I've got something for you," she says, shuffling towards my bedside. I groan, expecting to be force fed more orange segments to keep the Vitamin C levels up. Or maybe it's that disgusting cold medicine she swears by…

Then I smell it. The sweet smell, the rich aroma that can only be…

…Grandma's home made hot chocolate.

I quickly sit up in my bed and see the most beautiful sight. A steaming mug of hot chocolate held between my Grandma's wrinkled fingers. I sit back against the headboard as she holds it out to me, my fingers already forming the curved shape to fit perfectly around my mug, anticipating the moment of consumption…

"Why the hot chocolate? Have I forgotten a special occasion?" I ask, suddenly afraid I'm not going to be getting a mug as punishment for my poor memory.

"No dear," Grandma says. "I thought you all deserved a treat is all." I take my mug, smiling widely as I gaze down at my hot chocolate, made especially for me. The brunette liquid below bubbles up around the white peak of whipped cream and I run my pinkie along the rim of the mug and taste the sweet blend of cold cream and hot liquid against my tongue, a prequel to the main event.

As soon as it touches my lips I can't help the sigh. It is so good. It always is and always feels like a comforting hug in a drink. The initial bitter taste of the dark chocolate is immediately followed by the sweeter taste of the cream mixing with the hot liquid and I can feel it trailing a warm path down my throat.

"Awh Grandma…this is just fantastic," I sigh. I hear another voice speaking rather than hers however.

"You feeling better Gordon?" I glance up, wondering who has dared interrupted this sacred moment of hot chocolate drinking and spy Alan standing in the doorway.

"A bit," I reply guardedly, suddenly very protective of my chocolate delight.

"Well I've got something that will make you feel even better," Alan said, his face glowing with delight. "You know that actress you were talking about? The one that needed the rescuing?"

"Yeah?"

"Scott and Virg just got back and I overheard the debrief. Turns out she'd got air lifted by her personal helicopter half an hour before they got there so they spent the whole time up to their waists in muddy water trying to help the remaining film crew get to dry land! They're soaking, covered head to toe in mud…"

"They didn't see her?" I interrupt, hardly daring this to be true.

"Uh uh. Not even a little glimpse!" Alan is giggling uncontrollably now as I hear Scott's sharp voice cursing at him for being immature. Grandma frowns at Alan, shaking her head.

"Stop annoying your brothers," she reprimands him. "Leave Gordon to recover in peace." Alan looks a little put out and huffs down the hallway, but it isn't before long that he's making jokes at Virgil's expense.

"Are you feeling any better darling?" Grandma asks me.

"Now I am," I reply. I sink back into my pillow, a slow smile of content creeping across my face. There's nothing like hearing my brother's moment of smugness being washed away by thick muddy waters to make me feel good. I take another sip of hot chocolate and am again overwhelmed with the delicious sensation, the perfect bitter-sweet balance, the added delight of the cold, fluffy cream to top it off.

Well, the taste of Grandma's homemade hot chocolate helps makes everything a little better too.


End file.
